There is a problem with keeping one’s options open. I’m not sure what the problem is but sense its presence. More to the point, I don’t really care. I am throwing caution to the karmic winds.

Having not had the best night’s sleep, I abandoned the morning’s plan of driving to the center of town to do a bit of vegetable shopping. And, instead, threw myself upon the transit waters, a.k.a., Muni. Problem is, I am more than a supporter of San Francisco’s public transport. I am a sort of believer. Meaning that I succumb, like all the credulous, too a regular experience of fate and disillusion.

First, Gentle Reader, do appreciate what it is to ascend and plummet several times over various subordinate ridges of San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. Easy enough if you’re a sherpa, but inherently fatiguing if you happen to be a quadriplegic passenger. Which means that it is a relief to find oneself deposited safe and transit secure at the end of the bus line, Castro Street, the city’s pioneering district of gay rights. A large rainbow flag flies above it. It makes one proud to be part of the city of St. Francis. Not that I know much about the latter, but he comes highly recommended, has left a considerable mark on history…and that’s good enough for me.

Next up, crossing Upper Market Street to the Muni elevator. Pressing the button. Waiting. Waiting some more. Finally having a neighborhood guy tell me that the underground metro wasn’t working. Why? Testing new cars. Which is by any sensible standard ridiculous. That’s why they invented the night. Why these ‘tests’ must occur at 9 AM on Sunday…is slightly beyond comprehension. Not to worry. There is a replacement bus. But being only a temporary service, there is no actual bus stop marked. However, I flag down what looks like the right one and trundle down Market Street.

Breakfast. One of my morning goals. I have one place in mind…a fast and convenient café in San Francisco’s ‘concert zone.’ But actually, looking at the menu, the place seems much more interesting evenings. So I go. Down to the corner where breakfast is in full swing at another restaurant. I sit down…as it were, being already permanently seated…eyeball the menu of The Grove and order its avocado toast. The latter being on menus throughout San Francisco and needing absolutely no description, since it is exactly what it sounds like.

Naturally, in this burg the toast is made of artisan bread. This proves difficult to cut, so I hit upon an alternative course: ask the waiter for help. He slices away. We chat about our origins. He hasn’t been back to his hometown, Philadelphia, since he left, eight years ago. I thank him profusely. I leave a big tip.

Rolling toward Sunday’s Civic Center market, I can feel a cloud lift. My lonely morning journey seems less sad. Why is it sad at all? Because everything I do these days is harder. Which means that on a routine urban outing like this one, I can feel the fragility of the whole experience. That I am vulnerable, a rolling target for any of San Francisco’s marauders. A man who could easily be rendered helpless by wheelchair failure. Anything.

The Sunday farmers market is bounteous, of course, this being California and August. It is also crowded. Noting that the latter is very subjective. It is probably pleasantly bustling, no worse. But I am 70 years old. And whatever it is, it’s too much. As is the conversation with the man running the stall with peppers. Red, yellow, green, they are a cornucopia of organics. Are they hot? The man, who is alternately serving customers in Cantonese and English, doesn’t seem to understand. Mild, I ask. Sweet, he says. I have similar exchanges at every stall. There are no turnips. Turnips turn up elsewhere, I decide, rolling away. What is getting to me probably involves my lower back as much as my introversion. Doesn’t matter. I am headed home and grateful to have one.